Requiescat
by Painton
Summary: After the Battle of Five Armies, the Elven Host returns to Mirkwood where the dead are counted and small mistakes have consequences that will change the course of history.


**These characters belong to Jackson and company (and the Prof, of course); however, though I am far too in awe of Tolkien to feel comfortable so drastically altering his canon, I am not above toying with the movie-verse and this is a change that I truly believe would have made for a very interesting movie.**

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_"All her bright golden hair_

_Tarnished with rust,_

_She that was young and fair_

_Fallen to dust."_

-Oscar Wilde

.

Few lanterns were lit in the caverns beneath the mountains of Mirkwood. Halls that had once been filled with light and laughter now echoed with the footstep of those left behind. Many a fair elf-maid and –man had been laid to rest weeks ago, but their memory walked the halls long after their ghosts had flown westward over the sea.

The Elvenking felt this loss to his realm far deeper than he had felt the loss of his stolen jewels so many long years ago. Had it really taken the devastation of another war to teach him what was truly of value in this world? The old alliance between the Forest, the Mountain and the Water had been restored, the orcs were routed and – if Gandalf's long tale was to be believed – the Necromancer had fled far away. But it had come at a heavy cost.

Thranduil raised his eyes to the rows of his people who lined the paths around and above his throne. He looked down at the twelve companies that stood proudly at attention upon the wide floor of the cavern. Their armor was polished, and their helmets gleamed in the firelight; they were by no means the whole of the Elven army that had lived through the battle between the arms of Erebor, only those few survivors who were strong enough to stand for the long service.

At noon, the Elvenking had begun reading aloud the names of their dead; the sun was near to setting before he spoke the last name, and the one that cut deepest into his heart.

"…Laeron, swordsman of the Ninth Company; Inneth, archer of Green Company. And, lastly of our dead: Legolas Greenleaf, Prince of this realm."

The silence that followed rang loud in his ears, and he searched the faces of the soldiers for one that might sooth the ache in his heart. Eleven captains were there, each standing at the head of one of the twelve companies, but one face was missing, one company stood without a captain.

The King turned to Elros, Master of Keys now acting as sole member of the King's Personal Guard – all who had previously born that title had been killed or grievously wounded in the ruins of Dale.

"Where is the Captain of the Twelfth?" he asked.

"We sent word, my lord," Elros answered. "All were asked to come, but I did not think it right to order them, and we had no answer from…"

A murmur arose from the back of the crowd and many faces turned to look. Only the soldiers below remained in formation, their empty eyes staring ahead, their feet firmly rooted in stone. Thranduil frowned as row upon row of elves parted for the latecomer. The murmur grew louder, a mingling of disbelief and dismay from those who had not yet seen her.

"...Tauriel."

The Captain of the Twelfth strode forward seemingly indifferent to the many eyes that turned to stare. Her armor had been cleaned and polished but was not yet mended. It was rent in many places, cut by orc blades, all in the front and sides, and beneath could be seen the raw wounds that had been left behind. Tauriel's long hair, red as rubies, bright as fire, had been cut short where the scalp was not scabbed and scarred by the wounds of battle. She had shaved her hair nearly to the skin leaving only a red cap upon her head and a short fringe upon her brow. Her face was stern and grim as death itself.

Tauriel climbed the stairs and approached the throne. She knelt before the King and bowed her head. "You summoned me, my lord. What are your orders?"

Thranduil looked down at his adopted daughter with pity. All the elves of Mirkwood had heard by now that she had not lost her hair in battle but had with her own hands cut it off after their return to the forest. The tale had been whispered in every ear, how Tauriel and Legolas had fought side-by-side upon the field and each had cut more orc throats than any other soldier, Man, Elf, or Dwarf. It had been told how the tides of battle had swept them apart and how, upon seeing her foster brother in danger, Tauriel had turned against the tide and cut her way back to him. She might have reached him, too, if an errant orc arm had not reached out and caught hold of her long hair.

Half her scalp had been torn loose before she could turn and cut off the offending locks and the arm of the orc that held them, but too late. With blood streaming down her face and neck, she had reached Legolas' side too late. He was wounded beyond all healing.

Thranduil felt the pain in his heart as hot as dragon fire as he heard his own voice speaking his son's name among the dead, but he could not blame Tauriel more than he blamed himself. She, at least, had not let her pride lead her astray. His son was dead and his wife long past giving him another; for many years, he had considered Tauriel his protégé, and now she was his daughter.

"Your orders, lord," Tauriel repeated, looking up at him. The King may not blame her for the death of his son, but that did not stop her from blaming herself.

"Go down to your company," Thranduil said. "Stand with them now, and tomorrow, you shall lead them out into the forest. The Necromancer is gone, but his spiders still breed in the ruins of his abandoned fortress. You asked me once for this favor, and now I grant your request. Clean them out. Wipe the forest clean of their filth!"

He thought that he saw a weak smile pull at the corner of her mouth. It was cold and joyless but a smile nonetheless, and it soothed a little of the pain in his heart. He watched her walk down to the cavern floor and take her place at the head of the Twelfth. His son was gone but, in time, Tauriel's wounds would heal as Thranduil's own dragon-seared flesh had healed. She was his heir now and would stand where Legolas once stood, in his place but not replacing him, and if all that Gandalf feared were true, this loss must make them stronger.

They would need all their strength to stand against the enemy that was to come.

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**This was meant to be a one-shot, but I've had some ideas since posting and hope to expand it into a multi-chapter fic sometime soon. If you've read Quest to Forochel, then you know I can go all out with my multi-chapters ;) This story should prove no different.**

**TBC.**

**-Paint**


End file.
